


First Nights

by butterflymind



Series: Five Nights [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 18:11:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20550500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflymind/pseuds/butterflymind
Summary: He had promised Oscar somewhere by the sea to read his terrible reviews.





	First Nights

**Author's Note:**

> I did not mean to write this, or to continue Five Nights any further. But apparently the Zolf/Oscar infection is virulent and persistent, and this seems to have become a series.

**Review of Oscar Wilde’s ‘Brave New World’ from the Saturday Review.**

_Upon my review of Mr Oscar Wilde’s last play I recall setting forth the opinion that his work had taken an unfortunate turn towards the frivolous and the farcical. I believe I suggested that despite its obvious and lucrative appeal to the common man, it was made less enjoyable for a discerning audience by its lack of realism and connection to the world as it is._

_I would like to now apologise unreservedly to Mr Wilde for this assessment, as I fear it may be in reaction to it that he has produced his latest work. This play, entitled with a Shakespearean flourish Brave New World, is certainly enacted in the present (or at least the very recent past). It is in fact so full of reminders of the circumstances of the last few dreadful years that I am certain that Mr Wilde has returned to his earlier penchant for greater artistic integrity and admirable unconcern for appealing to the masses. I certainly cannot fault Brave New World for the realism of its setting; the writing, acting and stage craft were all united in a single aim of making one of the most unpleasant episodes of our collective history leap from the stage. However, the extremity of Mr Wilde’s swing from the comedic to the dramatic has unfortunately led to the fabric of this play suffering many similar problems to his last, albeit dressed up in tragedy instead of farce._

_In its fundamentals, Brave New World suffers the age old problems of a good plot occurring in a realistic world where many of its vital points are simply too fantastically unlikely. In common with many of his previous plays Mr Wilde makes hard work for providence and coincidence in his writing, albeit exchanging miraculous survivals and well timed visitors for his more familiar stock in trade of misplaced babies and long lost parents. But things that may have merely stretched credulity in the light and airy world of comedy are liable to snap it in two when presented to an audience in the context of a serious dramatic work. Therefore I cannot say I enjoyed Brave New World, although it was adeptly written and performed and the central themes of love and redemption were noble, if overused, devices. I once complained that although Mr Wilde’s work could make me laugh it did not move me to laughter. In this play he has found a new way to invoke in me the same response, I may have been involved in the characters, but the events around them were too contrived for me to believe anything that happened to them. I cried at the tragedy by the same reflex that once caused me to laugh at the farce but the emotion is shallow, and not truly moved in me. Brave New World is a new approach by Mr Wilde to an old problem, but sadly still not a solution for it.  
—H.C.T._

  


“They’ve always hated me.” Oscar muttered from behind the paper.  
  
“They haven’t.” Zolf replied, deftly sliding a hand under Oscar’s twitching fingers and extracting the butter dish. “They didn’t like your last thing, and they don’t like this one. For exactly the reasons you said they wouldn’t.” Oscar sniffed and dropped the paper so he could look at Zolf.  
  
“Yes, but the accusation of a lack of realism stings a lot more this time around.” Discovering the butter dish had been purloined during his distraction he leant over and stole the buttered toast directly from Zolf’s plate. “I can’t think why that would be.”  
  
“Oi!” Zolf snatched for the toast as it passed but missed. Oscar grinned and took a bite. “Reprobate.” Zolf muttered darkly, buttering himself another slice. He moved his fork closer to his hand and Oscar, knowing how he had once wielded a trident, decided against stealing any more of his breakfast. “To be fair, if I hadn’t been there I’m not sure I would’ve believed it myself.”  
  
“I was there and I’m still not sure I do.” Oscar reached across to the stack of newspapers at the corner of the table and tried to pick up another one. Zolf’s hand dropped heavily on top of the pile.  
  
“Nope. That’s quite enough of that for one morning.”  
  
“But there are at least three more reviews.” Oscar was aware that there was just the hint of a whine to his voice. It still amazed him every day that he had reached a point with anyone where he would allow that sort of emotion to escape.  
  
“You’ve been maudlin and self involved enough for one morning.” Zolf said firmly. “If I have to listen to any more deep and meaningful sighing I’ll put you on a boat back to England myself so you can wallow in London.”  
  
“Would you come with me?”  
  
“No.” Oscar deflated. Zolf softened the blow by reaching out and stroking the back of his hand. “I thought the entire point of this…” he waved his hand towards the window and the north French coast beyond, “was so you could avoid all of that. ‘Avoid the vultures dining from the corpses of the creative classes’ you said.” Oscar grimaced.  
  
“Was I drunk?”  
  
“Evidently.” Zolf grinned at him. “Fairly sure you were sober when we rented this place though.”  
  
“It’s hard not to look when the corpse they are dismembering is your own.”  
  
“No it isn’t.” Zolf reached around behind him and pulled the largest knife from the block. He stabbed it down hard into the pile of newspapers until it cut into the wood of the table beneath with a satisfying thunk. “See.”  
  
“Have I explained the principles of a rental deposit to you?” Oscar asked, his eyes on the blade that was still gently vibrating.  
  
“Yes. Now you know precisely how much gold I will pay for a quiet life.” Zolf stood up from the table, tugging on Oscar’s hand. “Come on, we’re going outside.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because all the reviews are in here.” Zolf said reasonably. “Unless you care what the seagulls thought.”

  


Zolf and Oscar had slightly different definitions of what constituted a ‘sea breeze’. For Oscar the term conjured up warm zephyrs on Mediterranean shores, breezes that caressed their faces as they drank cocktails on terracotta balconies. For Zolf, it seemed to mean any wind blowing off the sea that they could still stand up in. Fortunately today the weather was favouring Oscar’s definition and even he, former inveterate city dweller, had to admit there was something beautiful in the late summer sunlight glinting off the water below them. They were walking along the cliff top, listening to the squabbling of birds below them as they fought for perches in the white chalk. Zolf, who started every morning stroll as if it were a route march across enemy territory, had finally slowed down enough that Oscar could amble beside him with little effort, taking advantage of his longer legs. They were strolling in comfortable silence, and Oscar was so wrapped up in his thoughts that it took him a moment to realise that Zolf had stopped and was staring out to sea, hands on hips.  
  
“What is it?” Oscar backtracked until he was standing beside him, shielding his eyes from the sun as he tried to follow Zolf’s gaze. Zolf looked up, startled, and saw the expression on Oscar’s face.  
  
“Nothing to worry about.” He said quickly. For all they were nominally safe these days, it took very little for either of them to put their guard up.  
  
“What then?” Oscar gave up looking out to sea and sat down in the grass. Zolf looked over, gave a sigh that was part exasperation, part affection, and dropped down next to him.  
  
“Nothing really, just thinking.”  
  
“Dangerous habit, that.” Zolf quirked an eyebrow at him.  
  
“Don’t I know it.” Oscar, who was unfortunately attracted to exasperation these days, leaned over and kissed the raised brow despite Zolf’s less than committed attempts to fend him off. This only encouraged further kisses, until they were both lying in the grass. Oscar took advantage of the oppotunity to lay his head on Zolf’s chest for once, and encouraged the blunt fingers that were running across his scalp.  
  
“Bloody great cat, you.” Zolf muttered, but he didn’t stop.  
  
“Meow.” Oscar replied, and Zolf tweaked his ear in retaliation.  
  
“I was just thinking about what to do next.” Oscar, who had been happily drifting in the warm sun, looked up.  
  
“When we leave here you mean?” He was fairly sure the plural was appropriate, but that didn’t stop the shiver of relief that passed through him when Zolf nodded.  
  
“Yeah. I mean, I suppose we don’t have to go together, if you wanted…” Zolf trailed off as Oscar’s fingers dug tightly into his sides without their owner’s permission. He felt Oscar force relaxation through his hands, and couldn’t help but admit it felt gratifying. “I’d only leave you behind if you wanted to be left.” He clarified, rubbing a soothing hand down his side. “I’m giving you an escape route, not trying to build one for me.”  
  
“Good.” Oscar said fervently and his grip relaxed further, although it did not loosen entirely. “I never used to be like this.” He murmured into Zolf’s skin.  
  
“I know.” Zolf’s fingers continued to run through his hair. “But fortunately, you’ve got a lot better since then.”  
  
“You’re stuck with me now regardless.” Oscar said in a firmer voice, and leant up on his elbows so he could look Zolf in the face. “I don’t suppose we could just stay here forever?”  
  
“The cottage will be bastard cold in the winter. And I give it three months before you expire from boredom.”  
  
“My love, the optimist.” He registered the look Zolf was giving him and added, “I didn’t say you were wrong.”  
  
“Town or Country?” Zolf asked. Oscar sometimes worried that they had swapped basic aspects of their personalities in the last few months. He, ever the planner, had developed a worrying penchant for letting the world flow over him while Zolf, who seemed to have fallen accidentally into every job he had ever had, had taken to organising their lives.  
  
“Town.” Oscar said decisively. “If the air gets any cleaner I shall die from the boredom of breathing it.”  
  
“My love, the melodramatic.” Zolf replied. “Town for the winter then. Familiar or unfamiliar?”  
  
“Unfamiliar. The last thing we need is surrounding with my former acquaintances.”  
  
“I won’t argue with that.” Oscar didn’t know which he feared more, the way his former friends would treat Zolf, or the way they would treat him. For the first time in months his hand went to touch the well healed scar that ran down his face, feeling the contours of the parts that no longer moved. Zolf took his wandering hand and pressed it between both of his, before leaning over to kiss the line of the scar. “None of that.” He admonished gently. “We came out here so you could stop being maudlin.”  
  
“I’ll have you know I’ve made good money from being maudlin.”  
  
“You’ve made good money from being too clever by half.”  
  
“You love it.”  
  
“No, I don’t think it’s that.” Zolf pretended to consider him carefully. “When I’ve worked out what it is, I’ll get back to you.” Oscar flopped down, his head landing on Zolf’s stomach which earned him an ‘oof’ and idle swipe approximately in the direction of his ear.  
  
“It’s still something.” He said smugly.  
  
“Yes, well, no need to go on about it.” Oscar turned his head, kissed Zolf’s stomach, and then returned to staring up into the ridiculously blue sky.  
  
“It seems so far away. That life.”  
  
“It’s not that far away.” Zolf gestured vaguely towards the sea. “Not much more than a hundred miles. If you left now you could be there for breakfast.”  
  
“You know that’s not what I meant.” Oscar sounded more hurt than he intended. They were both still littered with sore spots. Zolf stroked his head in mute apology.  
  
“Yeah.” He murmured softly, “I know.” He continued in a more normal tone. “But take it from the voice of experience, you can’t think of it like that because you’ll drive yourself mad. You don’t have two separate lives, you have one life, and you’re moving through it. You’re still the person that lived that life, you’ve just been learning.”  
  
“And loving.” Oscar said sweetly, mostly just to get the rise out of Zolf. He didn’t disappoint, his face screwing up in mock distaste.  
  
“Could you be more of a cliché? I think some of the birds may not have noticed you’re an writer yet.”  
  
“Not much of one, if the critics are to be believed.”  
  
“And what do they know?” Zolf’s voice was unexpectedly heated. “If they could do what you do they wouldn’t be scribbling out nonsense on chip paper to be, would they.” Oscar looked up. Zolf appeared to be genuinely annoyed.  
  
“You’re angry.” He said, partly in wonderment.  
  
“Of course I’m angry.” Zolf snapped back. “They upset you. And all because they don’t know their arses from their elbows. They say it’s not realistic, I was there. You were there. Hamid and Azu and Cel were there. It bloody happened. And I won’t have them telling me my life wasn’t my life, and I won’t have them upsetting you either.” Oscar kissed him, it was impossible not to. There was no earthly way he could not at that moment lean up and over Zolf, use the extra height he had on him to bear him down into the grass. Zolf’s hands came up around his back and held him close, and for a few minutes they were nothing but sounds and the swaying of the tall grass.  
  
“And what was that about?” Zolf asked, pushing Oscar until he flopped over and lay on his back. He sounded gratifyingly breathless.  
  
“You.” Oscar replied, trying to catch his own breath. There was laughter bubbling under his skin, helpless joyful laughter that would not be hemmed in by scars and history. “You. Who took me out here because you said I should stop thinking about my reviews.” He couldn’t help it, the laughter was starting to burst through. “And all the time you were storing all that up. And you’re angry at them because they hurt me.” He sat up to smile at Zolf. He could feel himself beaming, the sort of smile he usually kept hidden away because it displayed every inch of the damage to his face. “You must love me so much.”  
  
“I thought we’d established that.” Zolf had to kneel to reach the height Oscar was when he sat up. He kissed the beaming smile on Oscar’s face. “I do.” He said, and kissed him again. “I continue to do so.” Again. “Despite the fact.” And again. “You are completely cracked.” Zolf held his face between his hands. “Cracked.” He repeated, and kissed him one more time.  
  
“What medicine is as potent as the madness of love.” Oscar declared, sweeping his arm dramatically round to curl behind Zolf’s back and hold him close. Zolf pulled back a few inches to look him in the eye.  
  
“Do us both a favour, and never write that one down.” He said. Oscar laughed, and the sun shone.

  


They burned the papers later, in the chill of the evening. Despite the warm days the nights were beginning to draw in, the first hints of russet colours and morning mists. They sat for a while on the hearth rug in front of the fire, until Zolf pointed out that all the romance in the world was not worth singeing his beard for. Now they had retreated to the leather chesterfield and Oscar had, for the first time since they had arrived in France, retrieved his notebook from the drawer he had thrown it in.  
  
“What are you writing?” Zolf asked sleepily. He had been dozing in the warmth of the fire for some time, but Oscar had thought better of mentioning it. Zolf had made substantial inroads into the bottle of Calvados that they had bought in the town, having first declared the drink ‘frivolous’ and then ‘extravagant’ while he consumed it in prodigious quantities. Oscar idly wondered about buying a case of it and sending it home so they would have it when they returned. But then he wondered exactly where he would send it, where home would be when they were done wandering, and he was just settling in to this maudlin train of thought when Zolf poked him none too gently in the side. “What’re you writing?” He repeated, the words slurring together just a little more than they had the first time.  
  
“I’m writing you a sonnet.” Oscar replied.  
  
“You had better be joking.” Oscar picked up his notebook and held it in front of his face, pretending to read.  
  
“I saw my love so short upon a ship…” Zolf dived across the sofa and wrestled the book from him. There was no sonnet, instead Oscar had filled the pages with rough drawn maps, parts of the world they had seen, and parts they had not. Zolf, previous mission forgotten, studied them carefully.  
  
“Is this a plan?” He asked eventually. Oscar shook his head.  
  
“Just thoughts, and idle ones at that.”  
  
“They don’t look very idle.” Zolf was still studying the book.  
  
“More daydreams than plans.”  
  
“You have very vivid daydreams.”  
  
“You already knew that.” Zolf dipped his head in wry acknowledgement. He went back to the book.  
  
“Copenhagen?” He asked at last.  
  
“It was just a thought. I’ve never been.”  
  
“Neither have I, but I would like to.”  
  
“It’ll be colder than here.” Oscar pointed out.  
  
“Then we’ll find plenty to do indoors.” Zolf was smiling at him and Oscar knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they would be spending their winter in Copenhagen.  
  
“I would like to see the merfolk.” He said thoughtfully.  
  
“I thought they were a legend.” Zolf was half distracted, still studying the pages of the book. Oscar bit down on the instinct to snatch it back, reminding himself that in this moment everything was right and proper.  
  
“Then why put up statues to them?”  
  
“Statues, those well known arbiters of realism?” Zolf was still mostly absorbed in the book, but he was well capable of arguing on autopilot. As he spoke he turned the notebook sideways to read the annotation scribbled on the side of the page. Oscar remembered what he had written there, and felt a chill go through him despite the warm fire. Zolf’s brow was creased as he puzzled out the words, but he looked up when he felt Oscar go tense beside him.  
  
“Thinking about the future?” He asked, his tone speculative.  
  
“Daydreams.” Unconsciously Oscar was drumming his fingers lightly against Zolf’s leg. Zolf reached over and covered his twitching hand with his own.  
  
“Good daydreams?” He asked, still with that speculative note in his voice.  
  
“I thought so.” Oscar’s voice suggested he was revising that opinion.  
  
“I think so too.” The smile was a slow thing, warmer than the fire. Oscar basked in it. “I’m not ready to put down roots quite yet mind.” Zolf turned the book so they could both see the page on which Oscar had drawn a rough map of a land he had not visited in years, and had written cautious tender words about a home he had not yet found. “But yes, sometime soon. Home.”  
  
“I was thinking I had nowhere to send a case of Calvados.” Zolf laughed, his hand spasming around Oscar’s as he did so. He moved across and curled himself in to Oscar’s body, finding the spots he had deemed most comfortable and moulding Oscar’s willing frame around him.  
  
“That sounds like a dangerous plan.” He said, half muffled where his lips were resting in the hollow of Oscar’s neck, his beard a ticklish scratch.  
  
“I thought it was frivolous.” Zolf dug his fingers into Oscar’s sides. “And extravagant.”  
  
“Mind your manners. Or I’ll feed you to the merfolk.”  
  
“I thought water based sacrifices were a thing of the past.” Zolf hit him lightly on the chest.  
  
“I still have that bucket.”  
  
“Of course you do.” Oscar could feel Zolf smile against his skin. He was growing languid and heavy in the warmth of the fire, brandy and comfort doing their work. “Perhaps you should go up to bed.” Oscar suggested, but got nothing but a grunt and the slight tightening of Zolf’s grip on him for his trouble. Oscar mused, not for the first time, that if he was going to fall in hopeless love with a creature two feet shorter than him, he could at least have picked one that he could also carry to bed. As it was he would have to bear Zolf’s grumbling about a stiff back and the discomfort of falling asleep in his prosthetics when he woke up. The imperative thing was that he should, under no circumstances, laugh at him. He turned his head and kissed Zolf’s brow, then settled himself in to get some sleep of his own before the inevitable waking when the night’s chill seeping through the rattling windows overcame the guttering fire. It wasn’t the first night they had fallen asleep this way and, the precious fluttering hope in Oscar’s chest told him, it wasn’t likely to be the last. 


End file.
